


A Delicate Union

by wildwordwomyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship/Love, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 07:31:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildwordwomyn/pseuds/wildwordwomyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dinner leads to more for a lonely former agent and his enigmatic employer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Delicate Union

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for “Identity Crisis”.

“Have dinner with me, Harold?”

 

It was that simple. They'd wrapped up their latest Number and John didn't have anywhere to go. There were places he _could_ go. There always are for men like him who prefer the shadows. But he'd wanted to be in the light this time. And who better to share it with than his employer? So he'd made the request, promising no intimate questions or unwanted interrogations, and Finch had agreed.

 

It didn't occur to him until they were seated across from each other at the restaurant that nothing with the billionaire was ever simple.

 

“Still drinking water?” John inquired when Finch finished his first glass and asked for a refill. It'd only been a few days since his drink had been tampered with by the wrong Jordan Hester.

 

Finch replied with a non-committal, “Hmm,” giving nothing away.

 

John sighed. “I'm just asking, Finch. No hidden agenda. Really. I want to make sure you're alright.”

 

John was tired. Constantly working the Numbers spit out by the Machine was taking a toll on him. It was fulfilling and draining and he needed a break. Only he didn't know how to ask for one when he knew the computer genius would keep going. To make matters worse the longer he worked for him, the more involved he got. More involved meant complications. Sometimes, instead of feeling like they were playing a game with all their back-and-forth, he wondered if he was the game. One Finch played at will.

 

Finch paused, obviously calculating what the most evasive response might be. “Almost, Mr. Reese. Thank you for your concern,” he said, surprising them both with his honesty.

 

John smiled. “I hear the filet mignon is very good and you could probably use the iron...” Finch smiled back automatically, causing John to tamp down a sudden flush creeping up on him at having done something right.

 

While they waited for their entrees they talked about the weather. Once that topic was exhausted John was at a loss. Most everything people conversed about was intimate, a way into someone's personality, their thoughts, their desires. And he'd given his word that he wouldn't attempt to get to know Finch any better, even though that was all he wanted to do. So he did the next best thing. He began to talk about himself.

 

“Before the military I used to imagine having a family. Wife, three kids, dog. Even a white house with a white picket fence. I wanted the kind of life my parents had.”

 

Finch sat forward a little. “What changed?”

 

“Me. After being where I've been, that life didn't want me any more. Some people can do both. I couldn't." He thought about Jessica, how he'd tried with her, how he'd failed. “I don't know if it's possible to be warm and cold simultaneously.”

 

“But you are, Mr. Reese,” Finch blurted. After realizing what he said his eyes widened.

 

“I am?” John questioned, too busy contemplating to smirk at his employer's expression.

 

The other man swallowed, then wiped his mouth with a corner of his napkin. John saw in his eyes that he was making the conscious decision to open up, that it was an effort. He hoped for Finch's sake that he'd be worthy.

 

“That's why I hired you. Your morals are a little loose,” John almost snorted into his own glass but recovered in time, “but they tend to follow the right path. Unlike your contemporaries you've yet to completely turn against humanity.”

 

Despite his promise to never lie to him John sensed something was missing. Either he _was_ lying or he wasn't telling the whole truth. “Was that a compliment, Finch?”

 

The older man blinked and sat back in his seat, lowering his eyes to the table. Unfortunately for him John caught the blush pinkening his cheeks. He wished he could decipher its meaning. The recluse was embarrassed, but why? He revealed so little of himself that John had a hard time understanding where he was coming from. It also didn't help that he still didn't know what role he had in his life aside from employee.

 

“You're not flirting with me, are you?” he bantered, trying to bring Finch back into the conversation. “Buttering me up with good food and companionship?” His mouth quirked into his signature smirk. “If you wanted to take advantage all you had to do was say so...”

 

“I believe it was _you_ who invited _me_ to dinner, Mr. Reese.”

 

“That I did, Mr. Finch. And I had no ulterior motives when I extended the invitation. But if you did when you accepted...” He leaned forward, his expression even as he watched the other man with a humorous twinkle in his eye.

 

Finch's own eyes snapped back up. “I certainly did not!” he exclaimed indignantly.

 

“So you do now?” He couldn't fight the grin that split his lips. He was having too much fun.

 

Finch pushed back his chair, struggling inelegantly to stand. John, in a fit of desperation, stood as well, blocking his path. “Finch, wait. I apologize. I never meant to make you uncomfortable.” An eyebrow lifted. “Okay, so maybe a little. I can't help it, Finch. You're so easy to get!” The eyebrow lowered again before both narrowed. “I tease, true, not to hurt.” Finch's shoulders visibly relaxed. “I don't want to hurt you, and if I am I'll stop immediately.”

 

John refrained from laying a hand on the recluse. He didn't want to scare him away and he knew from previous encounters that any physical sign of affection and comfort would do just that. It was a strong urge, though. The desire to show the man he could be trusted. To prove that he wanted to be there, sitting across from him, sharing this moment. He didn't have the words to say that it wasn't just any human contact he was seeking tonight.

 

When they noticed that they'd caused a scene they sat back down. Luckily diners and servers alike carried on as if nothing had happened. John picked up his glass, draining half the water in one long swallow while he got his emotions under control. He kept an eye on Finch, calming down even further as he spied him fussing with his silverware, moving them until they were perfectly perpendicular to his plate. It hit him then that if Finch did proposition him he wouldn't say no. Something about him, his innocence or his intelligence, spoke to John in ways he hadn't anticipated when he first started working for him.

 

Visualizing his hands, those same dexterous hands that had built the Machine, on his battle-worn body made John shudder and turn his head. No. Turning that man down wasn't an option. Maybe it never was.

 

“You're not hurting me,” Finch murmured. John's gaze slid back to him, searching for clues as to how to proceed. “I'm just not a gregarious as you, Mr. Reese.”

 

“John,” he responded without considering the repercussions. “At least for tonight?”

 

“John.” Finch nodded in acknowledgment.

 

“Thank you, Harold.” Finch exhaled quietly. Oddly, it seemed John had done something else right. “And just so you know, I'm not gregarious. If a situation calls for me to be sociable then I am. Mostly I'm a solitary creature.” Rilke's quote about a good marriage being between two people who guarded each other's solitude came to mind. John wondered if Finch was also recalling it. Because despite how crazy it was they did just that.

 

Finch frowned slightly but John couldn't fathom what was wrong. Their entrees were brought to the table, breaking the spell. They ate in silence, leaving him to reflect on how strange it was to be so comfortable as he soaked up the other man's presence. It wasn't often that he permitted himself to be still, to feel content. Whatever happened after this was all gravy. Or so he told himself.

 

Although watching the recluse was quickly becoming his favorite pastime. Once he finished the last of his filet mignon John decided to test the waters. “Nightcap?” he ventured, unconsciously holding his breath. Startled blue eyes locked onto him. “You can always say no, Harold...” He just hoped he wouldn't.

 

“Surely you have better things to do and better company to keep than mine, Mr.- John.”

 

This time John's smile was smaller, more private. “Actually, I don't,” he replied, his tone serious.

 

Finch didn't grasp what John wasn't saying. When he did get it he sat mute for ten seconds. Seconds that were the most agonizing of his life. John was putting everything out there with one word, making himself vulnerable for the first time since Jessica. More importantly, he was offering himself to someone who knew exactly what he was capable of. He had no idea what he'd do if he was rejected.

 

“I'm not particularly fond of hotels...” John looked away, his heart beating so hard it rattled against his ribcage. “There is a safe house close to here, however...”

 

John squeezed his eyes shut quickly before looking back at Finch. Seeing how nervous the older man was helped to settle his own fears. His head dipped a little in compliance while his blood raced through his veins. When he was a child his mother had explained to him that patience was a virtue. As he got older he turned it into a talent. He was glad now that the C.I.A. had sharpened it. He had a feeling he'd need it to get through the next several hours.

 

“Can we get the check please?” he asked when he caught their server's attention.

 

He acted normal as he handed over enough cash to cover the bill and then some. But something fluttered inside. Something wild that took flight. He felt lighter than he had in years. John couldn't stop himself from thinking this was what it meant to be free. Especially when Finch grinned bashfully at him. He grinned in return, letting the man see in his eyes all the things he couldn't tell him.

 

As they walked out of the restaurant he followed in Finch's footsteps, his palm resting low on his back. The connection grounded him while Finch called his driver. They waited and John calculated the odds of stealing a kiss. They hadn't done that yet but the idea of it excited him. He looked around. It was only eight o'clock. They were mostly alone with few strangers walking down the street. So he went for it.

 

He stepped in front of the other man, slowly leaning in to make his intentions known in case they weren't justified. Finch didn't move except to blink. No matter how scared he was he wouldn't back down. It was a trait John had been admiring since they met, and it came in handy now that their lips were only an inch apart.

 

“Tell me if you've changed your mind,” John whispered.

 

Before Finch could speak he leaned the rest of the way in and covered his mouth with his own. The kiss was light, quick, gentle, until he opened his mouth. John mirrored the action. Then their tongues touched. At that John moaned from deep in his chest, sliding his arms around Finch's waist. The recluse wore the flavor of steak and Merlot and something else he couldn't immediately place but wanted more of. He hadn't thought him to be so skilled at the art of kissing but he was. John briefly wondered who he'd honed it on, then dismissed the thought entirely. He didn't care as long as he benefited. A few minutes later Finch broke away, clearing his throat. Under the glare of the street lights his lips glistened and his face was flushed, his glasses slightly askew.

 

“The car will be here soon,” he said softly.

 

“Of course.” Patience. Right. He stepped back and put his hands inside his pants pockets to hide how much they trembled with the need to touch some more.

 

“John, I...” Finch looked away for a moment. When his gaze returned the ex-op felt a burning sensation low in his gut that had nothing to do with pain. “You mustn't expect too much of me.”

 

“I could say the same.” He smiled tenderly. Finch _wanted_ him. That was more than enough. “But don't worry. I don't expect anything.”

 

It wasn't necessarily a falsehood.

 

“Nothing more than either one of us can give...,” he amended.

 

Finch's right hand rose up to his cheek, cupping his jaw. John sighed, unaware that he was pressing into his hand until Finch's thumb started caressing his cheekbone. The motion was gentle, non-sexual, but the intensity inside John kept building anyway. He licked his lips and moved farther away so he wouldn't be tempted.

 

“Where's the damn car?” he growled. It pulled up in front of them less than a minute later.

 

They were both silent on the way to the safe house. John, at a loss again, looked out his window, watching the city pass by in a blur. His hand lay on the seat in the space between them. When Finch's pinky finger tapped his he sighed. The older man was still with him, still willing. That contact carried him through the ride.

 

 

The driver stopped in front of a nondescript brownstone and let them out. Before driving off Finch bent to tell him something through the window. John didn't try to figure out what. He emptied his mind completely, a trick he'd learned during his stint as an agent. He breathed deeply, purposely loosening his muscles until he felt as light as air, all his senses awakened and ready to receive.

 

Once Finch got them past the door he walked behind him, easily balancing his weight on the balls of his feet as he took in every detail. The alarm code, the locks on the door, light hardwood flooring that didn't creak, the gourmet kitchen surrounding a commercial gas range any chef would be envious of. The dark master bedroom housing a king-size bed. Finch's hesitation after they crossed the threshold.

 

“Harold?” he queried, standing by the bed. “Are you okay?”

 

Finch looked like he was about to take flight himself. The problem was he didn't know how to help. When he said he wasn't expecting anything more than the man could give he'd meant it. But he was pretty sure Finch hadn't believed him.

 

“Would you like me to leave?” He would if that was his wish.

 

Finch pursed his lips as if disturbed. He took a few steps toward the doorway, bringing him closer to where Finch stood. His movements seemed to make the other man even more afraid. John reached out, pulling him into his arms to soothe him. John knew without being told that it's been too long since someone had done so. Maybe since before he'd been injured. He ran his hands up and down his back slowly, lightly, thinking if this was it it was still better than he deserved and more than he ever hoped for.

 

“I'm sorry,” Finch mumbled into the lapel of his jacket. “I haven't...Not since...”

 

It was the first time the man had ever sounded anything less than succinct, and it endeared him to John even more. “Neither have I,” he admitted. They were most likely talking about different things but that didn't matter. “So we'll just take our time. No more than we can give, remember?”

 

“I remember.” It wasn't guaranteed but he counted what amounted to a smile in Finch's voice as a victory.

 

“Harold, I...Can I see you?” The recluse tensed. “Please? I'd like to.”

 

At first he assumed he'd gone too far. That he'd be kicked out and fired and never get the chance to give Finch all that he'd been given. Then Finch stepped away and he knew he was done. Suddenly the room flooded with light, bright, jarring light that caused him to blink until his eyes adjusted. When he could see properly Finch had his index finger on a wall switch, about to turn it back off.

 

“Wait,” John called. “Please?” he repeated. Finch's hand lowered to his side. “Thank you.”

 

He half-smiled, walking over to the man. He kissed him with his mouth closed, trying to get back to where they were when the recluse's fear interrupted them. It took a few seconds for him to respond. Once he did his lips became bold, aggressive. Hungry. John parted his own lips eagerly, letting Finch's tongue slide in to stroke his. He kept finding himself surprised by the man's technique. How his tongue would sweep his mouth as if gathering all its flavor, then retreat only to slip back in and pet his own with a wet warmth that was intoxicating.

 

John reminded himself to take it easy, because Finch had limitations he needed to take into consideration. It was hard, though, when each kiss heightened his craving. He pulled back to catch his breath.

 

“Jesus, you're good at that,” he murmured, diving back in for more.

 

He held Finch's head still as they kissed, shaking some as his body began to tingle in anticipation. Throwing caution to the wind he let go to take off his jacket and unbutton his shirt. They dropped to the floor with a harsh whisper. He bent over to untie his shoes, taking them off as well as his socks. When he straightened Finch was staring at him, his lips parted. Having already removed his own jacket, his hands had frozen in the act of unbuttoning his waistcoat.

 

“Need a little help with that?” he teased. His own traitorous fingers stretched out, swiftly releasing Finch from his confinement. The shirt came next. Then his belt. He observed his reactions as he did this, cataloging them, prepared to stop as soon as one was negative. Luckily they were all positive. John placed his fingers then on the waist of his pants. “Should I keep going?” he asked just to be certain.

 

He could feel the older man's stomach clench. Out of nervousness,self-disgust or fear, John couldn't say. He didn't call a halt so John unfastened the pants and pulled down the zipper. With a quick yank they pooled around his ankles. John didn't hesitate to lean down and tap his right shin. Finch put a steadying hand on his shoulder as he picked up his first his right foot, then his left so the pants could be completely removed along with his shoes and socks. Once that was done John stood back up, inhaling Finch's clean, crisp scent as his eyes caught a glimpse of pale, hairy legs. John moved back a foot to look, really look, at the man in front of him. Finch probably thought he was taking note of every flaw, only to find him wanting. Odd how the opposite occurred. Those flaws stoked his fire, because they made the recluse real. They made him human.

 

“Take the rest off,” he all but demanded hoarsely, his mouth beginning to water as he imagined what he could do to make the reserved genius scream his name.

 

Finch pulled off his undershirt, then his boxer shorts, causing John to breathe shallowly. All that white skin, that fine brown hair, usually hidden by his three-piece suits, covered him like a present John couldn't wait to unwrap. His jaw dropped open in a gasp as it dawned on him. Finch was beautiful. Hauntingly raw and tangible. The added pounds around his middle didn't discourage him in the least. In fact they made John even more inclined to touch, to taste, to feel all the parts that summed up the whole of him.

 

“You're beautiful,” John whispered to himself as well as the older man, who gave an undignified snort upon hearing the compliment. His eyes snared Finch's. “Whether you believe me or not it's still true.”

 

To prove his words came from his heart he pushed his own pants and underwear down, his erection bobbing in front of him. Words wouldn't make a difference but he couldn't pretend to be hard. He climbed onto the bed leisurely, displaying his body. Knowing Finch was looking he swayed his backside invitingly, smiling when he felt eyes devouring him.

 

He sneaked a peek over his shoulder and winked. “Coming, Harold?”

 

Finch didn't answer verbally. Instead he sat on the edge John was closest to and ran a hand down his spine, stimulating every vertebra with only his fingertips. John dropped his head, his eyelids sliding shut involuntarily. He'd never been so turned on in his life and they hadn't even gotten to the good part yet. He arched his back when that same hand slipped lower to sweep across his behind.

 

John had been with men before. Not a lot and they'd all had something to do with his undercover work, but this was the first time he'd let himself be this open, this accommodating. Even during the act of being penetrated he'd always held pieces of himself back. Until now. Until Finch had entered his world and asked for everything. He groaned when the other man's hand caressed his flank, then the thin skin of his inner thigh. His limbs were literally quaking with the effort to keep himself in check. Then he remembered he didn't have to. He turned around on his knees and carefully helped Finch on the bed, trusting that the man would speak up if he hurt him in any way.

 

He laid him down on his back, waiting for him to get comfortable. As soon as he was they kissed again. Deeply. Uninhibitedly. Once he'd given Finch enough time to get used to his proximity he broke away to kiss and lick at his neck before moving down to mouth at his clavicle. He kept going, nipping and sucking on round, chocolate nipples until they pebbled from his ministrations. His narrow chest got the same loving attention, then his stomach. John used his hands to gently massage the extra flesh as he marked it with little hickeys. If Finch's whimpers were anything to go by he didn't mind.

 

The recluse seemed to be melting under his touch, relaxing, panting. It was all the encouragement John required. He sank lower, sucking the root of Finch's passion into his mouth. The musk of his leaking head flooded the ex-op's taste buds and John hummed, swallowing gratefully. He licked, nipped and kissed each centimeter, allowing the man's earthy scent to fill his nostrils. Finch smelled strong here, randy rather than clean. John couldn't get enough. He pulled him in until all he could see, all he could feel was this. Heaviness on his tongue, his throat full, Finch's grunts and groans raining down like music to his ears.

 

When John closed his eyes and moaned, swiveling his hips to rub against the blanket, Finch abruptly climaxed, catching them both off guard. He drank each drop, inhaling harshly through his nose. Once Finch went limp he pulled back so that only the head still remained in his mouth and gave himself over to a mind-blowing orgasm.

 

It took Finch whimpering like he was hurt for John to realize he was still suckling on the head even though it had to be sensitive by this point. “Sorry,” he said, his voice gravelly.

 

He planted a kiss on it and slid to the recluse's side, putting a possessive arm around his hips. Snuggling against him, he was shocked when Finch ran his fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp with blunt nails. The repetitive motion made every single hair on his body stand on end. He almost purred due to how delicious it felt.

 

“You are a sensualist, aren't you, Mr. Reese?” Finch remarked languidly.

 

“Harold, I've just given you a blow job. The first of many, I hope. So I would think you could call me John...” He was grinning against Finch's hip as he said it. “And, yes, I am. Will that be an issue?”

 

Finch sighed, somewhat unconvincingly. “No.” He waited. “John.” And there it was. He was pleased to detect a hint of affection.

 

John took another chance, asking, “Can we stay here tonight?” His choice of words was deliberate.

 

“You don't mind?” Finch countered.

 

“No.”

 

He got up, naked as the day he was born, scouting around until he found the linen closet. He grabbed a blanket and came back to the bedroom, unfolding it as he walked. Finch tsked when he realized John had no plans to clean up, or to let himself clean up, but he stayed where he was. John crawled back onto the bed, pulling the blanket with him to cover them both up. He slid his arm around Finch's chest, kissed him tenderly on the lips, and settled in.

 

Within minutes he fell into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.


End file.
